


Open Wound

by Nevospitanniy



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Religious Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 09:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10533870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nevospitanniy/pseuds/Nevospitanniy
Summary: Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned





	

**Author's Note:**

> Whoops, drunk fics are always so sad. 
> 
> Shoutout to Ki:Theory for the title.

It was all her fault, Graves thought, sipping on his bourbon. A crystal decanter was catching flames from a fireplace on its rough surface, making ember liquid inside seem alive. Tina hated her drinks strong, so she took a liking to something no-majes called ‘Highball’, bourbon with ginger ale. She tried it first in a seedy little bar downtown, a regular place, full of rowdy drunks, loud music and cigarette smoke. Graves couldn’t for the life of him understand why would any witch (or wizard) tolerate such a place, when there were perfectly good magical establishments available to visit anytime, but no, it wasn’t ‘interesting’. Damn Goldstein and her penchant for no-majes, sighed Percival, sagging lower in his armchair. That was how it all started, this Credence business - with Tina. 

Tina-Tina-Porpentina.

Graves chuckled, toeing off his shoes to warm up his feet by the pleasantly dancing fire. It was barely 9 in the evening and he was already drunk; this was becoming quite a habit. If he was completely honest with himself (which he usually refused to be, drinking was the whole point), he liked the burning slip of bathtub bourbon, almost a punishment for breaking a law. Of course, wizards didn’t have the Prohibition malarkey, but still, someone had to commit a crime for Percival to get this. He sniffed the contents of his glass, suddenly suspicious, but decided no one would poison him any more he was poisoning himself right now. Graves polished off his liquor, catching the last drop with his tongue. Liquid fire - that’s how he imagines Credence tasting. 

No. We are not talking about it, he reasoned with himself, slamming an empty glass on a small table.

Guilt was such a silly feeling, very reductive. “Guilt is a soul’s way of saying there is something to be done”, Graves recalled hearing on one of the weekly New Salemers meeting. He was sitting in a tiny stuffy no-maj-filled church three times a week, listening to that wretched thing of a woman, Mary Lou, go on and on about witches and sin and hellfire, but that was the only good thing she ever said or did. Probably wasn’t even her own thought, Percival mused, feeling himself slip even further down the chair, his sock-clad feet inching forward through the soft carpet. He could deal with any emotion - fear, anger, frustration, Merlin knows he had a lot of those in his line of work, but guilt was foreign, alien even. He never felt guilty, why would he? Bad guys caught - check, people saved - check, fragile balance of power upheld - check. You feel guilty if you’ve done something wrong, but what if guilt suffocates you preemptively, what if guilt is your catalyst?

Graves fumbled to stand up from his semi-horizontal position, huffing. Could you even feel bad for an action that hasn’t happened? Credence’s holy book said you can and should seek penance for sinful thoughts. Graves personally thought it was a whole bunch of nonsense but he may have stolen a Bible from Barebone meeting last time. It was a small worn book, corners lifting and dirty. Golden “Holy Bible” name, once probably very fancy looking, was now barely a tint, with fingers having wiped away the color and leaving only black embossed letters. He fished the book out of his coat, laying messily on his couch, and squeezed it. Percival may’ve been drunk but it was almost like the pages heated up under his touch - sensing his sinful ways, trying to undo his witchcraft, bubbling with righteous indignation. He opened the thing somewhere in the beginning, his blurred vision making small print and a smattering of numbers hard to read. He assumed different names were some kind of important people - Graves genuinely wanted to understand, ever since Credence leaned into his touch in a dark alley, eyes watering and knees buckling, breath hitching in his pale throat, spidery fingers timidly reaching up to touch his coat, connecting for a moment with his bare wrist, and whispered “Ma says it’s sin, Bible teaches what I want is wrong and perverse.” 

All Percival wanted to do was just shove a boy against the wall and ask “What is it that you want?”, really close to his gently sculpted ear, with hot breath and arms going up and under a thin material for Credence’s shirt, touching his

He never did and now a thought of that night settled heavily in his lower belly. Graves scrubbed at his face with sweaty palms, trying to get that image out of his head. He wasn’t even sure if it really happened or whether his desire was just that strong it started messing with what was real. He didn’t even want it to be real.

Probably. Not at all. Yes. No. Maybe. 

“ _26 Because of this, God gave them over to shameful lusts. Even their women exchanged natural sexual relations for unnatural ones. 27 In the same way the men also abandoned natural relations with women and were inflamed with lust for one another. Men committed shameful acts with other men, and received in themselves the due penalty for their error. 28 Furthermore, just as they did not think it worthwhile to retain the knowledge of God, so God gave them over to a depraved mind, so that they do what ought not to be done.”_

Percival blew a raspberry, unamused. This entire book looked like a huge waste of paper, all dogmatic orders and apocalyptic punishments. Foul read. 

“ _9 Or do you not know that wrongdoers will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: Neither the sexually immoral nor idolaters nor adulterers nor men who have sex with men 10 nor thieves nor the greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God.”_

What was even so good about this god kingdom? Sounded like the most boring thing ever. Graves poured himself a new drink with book hovering on his eye level, pages turning. He was way too sober for this shit. Putting people who like other men with thieves was a bit harsh, not to mention nonsensical. Percival started really feeling for Credence, he could almost imagine his bloodless face, wet with tears, back shredded, lips wordlessly repeating passages and sentences sentencing him to endless suffering for daring to be touched, to be wanted and wanting back, for the hands wandering and eyes hungry and

_13 “ ‘If a man has sexual relations with a man as one does with a woman, both of them have done what is detestable. They are to be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads.“_

Graves with a flick of the wrist tossed a book into the fire, cracking away in his hearth, pages quickly browning and leather cover warping, squeaking like an wounded animal. He looked at his shaking hands, bourbon glass laying on the carpet with amber liquid seeping into cream carpet. Percival almost expected a gash on his trembling upturned palms, or at least a lashing mark, like the ones Credence has. Graves wasn’t able to heal his scars without raising suspicion, but he did get rid of fresh wounds, deep and weeping blood as the boy was weeping tears.

And he was so breathtakingly beautiful. So fragile and transparent. Complete trust on his face intoxicating, addicting, lethal. He wanted to hurt Credence, to break him so tenderly the boy will cease to be human and become a piece of art, but also would break the neck of anyone who would dare to touch a hair on his head. This duality tore his mind apart. He never asked for this. None of them did.

Pacing across his liquor-soaked carpet, Percival couldn’t find a place for his hands, eventually settling on opening and closing palms, like a kneading kitten. Credence was like a kitten. Small and so defenseless, so

Shut up. 

Everything was Credence. His hands were Credence, his shushed words and stolen smiles were Credence, nothing belonged to him anymore, except for pain and desperation and self-doubt. Graves knew the boy never heard a nice word in his life, so wanted to give him every good one he had ever heard. Every single one, just so he would smile, timid twitch of the lips brighter than the sun, warmer than the fire, more tangible than that damned Bible. 

Was he even good for Credence? Graves thought he helped, lie tickling his chest. All he ever wanted was to make the boy’s life a bit more bearable, a bit easier, put some spring in his step, be a pleasant memory; he tried so hard, but his ‘help’ only got Credence in trouble and there was no good in healing his wounds if Graves was the reason for the beating in the first place. 

He was so alone for so long and loneliness was suffocating, sucking the air right out of his lungs the second he slammed the front door behind him. It felt sticky, smelled like mold and smoke, hugged like vines and Credence’s hands when they connected around Graves’ midriff one misty fall day, palms scarred and long, bunching the coat, sapping warmth.

He was taking advantage of the boy, his naïveté, purity, inexperience. If there was a so-called hell, he would burn in it for all eternity, Graves thought and sat on the couch, opening his pants. He was already hard against his own best wishes, with smallest thoughts of Credence’s sharp face, bony shoulders that would probably look so lovely in a new shirt or without one

He sighed, deep and pained, taking his length in hand, tasting humiliation on his tongue. It tasted like Credence. Like sunshine and dirt. Graves stroked roughly up and down his cock, intentionally making himself wince with movement too fast and too dry, but pain did nothing to alleviate his lust. He panted, images flashing in his mind - of Credence bare with legs long and body pliant, lithe back muscles working under his skin as he writhed in a giant bed, gasping helplessly, small round ass calling Graves’ name, him putting a large palm on it, so close to feeling heated flesh underneath, shivering with anticipation. Credence laughed low and sensual, turning his raven-haired head over the shoulder, sharp profile enticing and mocking. Percival sucked air though his teeth, hand working faster and faster on his dick, still squeezing a bit too hard, as if his own body tried to stop, fruitlessly; his breath quickened, pearly precome glistening in the tip in low light from the fire. Credence wasn’t here, naked as the day he was born, on his knees in front of the couch with palms pressed together in front of flat hairless chest, praying to his God. His lips didn’t move, reciting passages, hands didn’t fall lower, sliding up and down his long body, fingers wandering into his mouth and sliding in with an obscene wet 

Graves’ eyes rolled back as he came in strands, soiling the poor carpet and the front of his work pants. He was trying to catch his breath, gaze wandering wildly, hoping against hope to find Credence. His apartment was clean, apart from a forgotten glass on the floor, and, regrettably, empty. 

He could cry.


End file.
